


the existential crisis of being american

by novrik



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: American Miya Atsumu, American Sakusa Kiyoomi, Break Up, Falling In Love, Getting Back Together, Hopeful Ending, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25947904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novrik/pseuds/novrik
Summary: atsumu meets another japanese american on vacation.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 110





	the existential crisis of being american

**Author's Note:**

> tw for loosely referenced racism against asians, homophobia
> 
> not my best work bc i wrote this entirely today (my last day before school it's trmrw god Fuck!)
> 
> anyways this idea possessed me like a fever dream like i just Had. to write it it wouldn't leave me alone; it was a nice break from my current wip (which is long and arduous and is taking everything out of me)
> 
> this piece is less metaphorical, more introspective; atsumu and kiyoomi might seem a little different from typical characterizations but that's the part about them growing up in america coming into play
> 
>  _italics_ represent them speaking in jpn regular is english

His Japanese is stilted, the words thick in his mouth. Atsumu’s mother tongue has never been the easiest, but he’s tried his best attempting to converse with parents and extended family all the while throwing in English when he can’t remember the Japanese words. Osamu has a better proficiency spending all his time in the kitchen with Grandma. Atsumu is jealous, he won’t lie. He wants to talk with Grandma the way Osamu does, not with mispronunciations or inaccurate word usage or needing to resort to English. Every time he does have to use English, the look of confusion brings up a well of shame and embarrassment. Atsumu tries, he really does, but his Japanese is just good enough for daily conversations.

Of course, the second gen immigrant experience in America is easily understandable, especially for a kid of Asian descent. Atsumu’s classmates all agree: understanding is easy, speaking is difficult, reading is okay, and writing is a nightmare. They all feel bad, everyone admitting they wish they were better. While the only other Japanese kid is his twin, Atsumu is grateful to be able to feel seen, to feel heard by people who understand.

San Jose, California is about an hour from San Francisco. It’s a nice city, nice weather even if there’s a lack of rain. Atsumu hangs out at the Viet cafe across school with his friends. They do homework sessions together, sometimes ordering a bánh mì and a cà phê sữa đá to help power the brain. Ever since his first cup, Atsumu is unhealthily obsessed with Vietnamese iced coffee. Most of the time he gossips with his friends as his pencil scratches work for math class and takes sips of his drink in between words. It’s a lot of “oh my god, did you hear what x and y did” and “tests have been pushed up/back” and “I’m gonna fail, why didn’t I study.” They do a lot of complaining be it parents or school, a lot of relieved sighs when grades are posted and GPA is staying afloat.

There’s another aspect of the second gen Asian American immigrant experience. Atsumu and Osamu and every single one in their friend group is expected to do well in school, go to college and become a doctor or lawyer or engineer. Atsumu resents those expectations, but he tries anyway. He’s not entirely lacking when it comes to school smarts making an average of mostly low As and high Bs, but he’s no valedictorian or salutatorian. He spends his time juggling an appropriate amount of AP classes with his volleyball practice. It’s a good look on his college resume, the only reason his parents allowed him to stay on the team.

To an outsider’s perspective, everything is going well for him. He scored more than fine on his SAT, a 1540 (first try), his GPA is good (3.8), he’s in his fair share of clubs, and volleyball padded his stats well. But Atsumu feels like he’s lacking, like he is not a good child for not doing better.

//

The first time Atsumu visited his grandmother in Hyogo, before she moved to California, was in the summer. He was about six, just months away from turning seven.

He and Osamu were shy having never seen their grandmother in person up until now. They peek around the legs’ of their parents, mother and father revealing quiet smiles as they urged the twins to go say hi.

Atsumu greeted her in wobbly Japanese and she clapped her hands together in excitement. 

_“How wonderful! They speak Japanese!”_

He and his twin shared shy grins. _“Just a little.”_

 _“Can you understand me?”_ she asked, and they nod. Their grandmother was happy, and she beckons them to come closer. She shows them pictures of their deceased grandfather, their aunts and uncles, their parents at their wedding. The twins ooh and aah at everything and happily agree to whatever their grandmother asked of them.

It was then that Atsumu began to enlarge his vocabulary in Japanese. Grandma taught him words he didn’t know when he struggled to explain what he meant. She taught him words that he had no need for back in the States but were useful here. He practiced the words as much as he could, chasing his brother in the summer sun in English crying “I’m gonna get you!” while the Japanese equivalent ran through his head. He stared at the ceiling of the guest room under the covers of a thin blanket, the words repeatedly imprinting his mind.

Six almost seven year old Atsumu liked being able to speak Japanese. He liked being able to talk to people like him. This is where he’s from, where his parents are from. He liked being connected.

//

_“Is there anything else you need?”_ the cashier asks as she rings up Atsumu’s order.

He’s blanking as he’s done more than once in his twenty two years of life. Shit, did he need anything else? Now he looks like an idiot standing there with his mouth open. Nice, Atsumu.

“She asked if you need anything,” someone says behind him in perfect English. The voice is flat on the grating side. Atsumu detects a definitive note of “I don’t take anyone’s bullshit.” Definitely American.

“I know what she asked,” he says, glaring at the stranger. “I just blanked.”

The stranger, somehow taller than him for fuck’s sake, pulls his mask down to reveal his smirk. Atsumu decides right then and there he hates this guy, him and his stupid black curly hair, the two moles over his eyebrow (who puts moles there?), the cocky air surrounding him. “Blanked huh?”

He turns to the cashier. _“Please, ring this up too. I’m paying.”_

“What the fuck,” Atsumu hisses. “I don’t need charity.”

“This is where my cousin would say some bullshit like ‘Oh we Americans gotta stick together.’ I’m just following his advice, but if you rather owe me one,” the guy doesn’t finish his sentence letting Atsumu figure out the rest of it.

Well, Atsumu was right, the guy’s American. “Fine, I owe you one.”

He envies the guy whose Japanese seems to be on par with his English. Smooth, speaks like a natural, almost like he grew up here. He speaks both languages effortlessly as if he doesn’t have to think about the way it sounds in his head before opening his mouth. Some phrases come naturally to Atsumu, daily conversations with his parents to thank for, but Atsumu hasn’t had much interaction besides family which makes for awkward situations in Japan.

The guy pays, they walk out.

“I didn’t get your name,” Atsumu says once they’re outside.

 _“My name is Sakusa Kiyoomi.”_ Kiyoomi, huh.

“Omi-kun, then.” The glare pleases Atsumu. “Atsumu Miya.” 

“Give me your number, Miya,” Kiyoomi says simply, holding out a bottle of sanitizer.

“How bold,” Atsumu remarks. He doesn’t question it, just lets a squirt fall into his palm. “And it’s Atsumu, not Miya.” 

“I don’t know you well enough to call you Atsumu.” Kiyoomi hands his phone to Atsumu after he’s finished rubbing his hands together.

“We’re Americans, Omi-kun,” Atsumu returns dryly but takes the phone anyway and adds in a new contact.

When Kiyoomi takes it back, he raises his eyebrows. “Sexy Blond American? Really?”

Atsumu grins. “I’m a sexy blond American. From California, too.”

“Fucking figures I get stuck with the Californian. Pray tell, you’re not from L.A.”

Atsumu laughs. “Fuck no, I’m from San Jose which is NorCal. You?”

“Texas.”

“Oh shit, really?”

There’s a mirthful smile on Kiyoomi’s face. “I don’t seem like I’d live in the south, do I?”

“No,” Atsumu answers honestly. “Are you staying nearby?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a sense of comfort for Atsumu who’s been touring Tokyo all by himself for the first time. He’s not Japanese enough, too American in his ways for him to feel totally at ease. He hasn’t even had a full ten minutes with Kiyoomi, and Atsumu already feels a sense of belonging.

“Can I walk you back?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi agrees, and Atsumu’s heart soars along with the corners of Kiyoomi’s smile.

Japan has been beautiful albeit a bit lonely. Atsumu doesn’t think it's so lonely anymore.

//

His first girlfriend is from freshman year, a conventionally pretty blond white girl. Atsumu doesn’t know how to say no when she confesses, so his stumble of an answer is taken as a yes. She’s shorter than him, a cheerleader on the JV team, and his status goes up as her boyfriend. Atsumu pretends he likes this, holding clammy hands and having to hear incessant chatter from the cheer squad.

His first kiss is on school grounds tucked in a hidden corner. Her lips are too sticky and taste overly sweet of artificially flavored gloss. She can’t kiss, it’s bad and their teeth clack together. Atsumu lies to his girlfriend that he enjoyed the kiss.

He breaks up with her after two months. It’s a bad scandal for a bunch of freshmen. Atsumu caught her making out with some other guy. She started crying blaming him for never being there. It’s ugly, and Osamu laughs at him for it.

Atsumu learns that he doesn’t vibe with girls, that his eyes are caught lingering on the guys, that he’s gay. Turns out his twin is gay too. Funny how that worked out for his parents.

He considers himself lucky that both his parents are supportive despite knowing that it should be normal. He quietly confides in his friends, they clap him on the back, and they all go out for boba. Atsumu feels at peace in his identity for once.

His first boyfriend is Vincent, his best friend not counting Osamu. It is refreshing to be with someone he likes. Atsumu enjoys the relationship for what it’s worth. He finally understands the appeal of holding hands; he is grounded and safe and warm. He learns how to kiss, chaste and sweet and soft.

Breaking up with Vincent is clean and easy without mess. They mutually agree they’re better off as friends. Atsumu doesn’t regret it and neither does Vincent.

He dates a guy junior year that makes him rethink just about every decision he’s ever made. Atsumu is a confident, cocky bastard, but this guy makes him look tame. He ends it after two weeks unable to deal with this shit anymore, but when Atsumu stands to leave his date at lunch, the guy’s cruel smirk has him clenching his fists in anger. Apparently this entire thing was a joke, and he referred to Atsumu with some choice words relating to both his sexuality and ethnicity.

He throws a punch.

Atsumu’s English is stilted in the confines of the principal’s office. He attempts to explain the altercation but is unable to properly go through with it. Nothing seems to be getting to his principal’s head.

He conveys this angrily in Japanese to his mother who rubs his shoulders. _“I am the victim here, why doesn’t he understand that?”_

 _“Atsumu, honey, it’s okay. Take it easy. I’ll take care of it,”_ his mother reassures him. He sighs, shoulders relaxing.

For once in his life, he converses easy with his mother, and he sits back to watch her unleash against the man.

High school is now one less racist and homophobic, but the entire ordeal has Atsumu questioning himself. He’s too Japanese to fit in at school, too American to fit in at home. He likes boys, his brother likes boys, his friends like boys (and girls), but people see what they want to see.

Atsumu doesn’t care to repeat what people call him.

//

Atsumu is back home from his Japan trip, home meaning his parents’ house. He sits on his bed and bites the inside of his lip as he stares at his phone screen. The imessage chat log with Kiyoomi stares back at him.

“Call him,” Osamu says, head poking through the doorway.

Atsumu whips his gaze up. “How do you—? Wait. Nevermind, don’t answer that.”

When all Osamu gives him is a knowing look and a mischievous grin, Atsumu throws a pillow in the direction of his twin’s face. “Get outta here.”

Laughter can be heard down the hall, and Atsumu steels himself before pressing call.

“Atsumu?”

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Something wrong?”

“I miss you,” Atsumu admits.

“Hm, me too,” Kiyoomi agrees. “Against my better judgement.”

“Be my boyfriend,” Atsumu blurts out before he loses any more nerve.

Light laughter Atsumu has come to hold near and dear to his heart. “Was wondering when you were gonna ask.”

“Oh, you like me back?”

Kiyoomi laughs harder.

“Can you stop laughing, please.”

“Sorry, I just thought you knew.”

_“I like you, Kiyoomi-kun.”_

_“I like you too, Atsumu.”_

//

Atsumu takes the shinkansen to Kyoto from Tokyo. It’s about two hours long, the seat is very comfortable, and he knocks out after taking a bit of video through the window. He groggily blinks his eyes open, and he’s arrived. Japanese engineering is the stuff of wonders. Atsumu wonders how much it would cost to build one back home in Cali or even across the country.

He takes a bathroom break, smiling to himself seeing students sitting in lines for their school trip. Atsumu wishes he had anything this cool back in middle school. He stands in line to buy an iced latte, desperately needing the caffeine boost, and then buys a ticket for the stop nearest his hotel.

The weather is on the hot side, sweat sticking to the back of his neck as he pulls his luggage up the stairs. Atsumu stands outside the entrance/exit of the subway station while he scrolls through his phone for directions. His hotel isn’t far, just a couple of minutes from here.

He’s saved up for this trip, so the hotel he booked is pretty nice. It’s got a modern look on the outside, and the air conditioning is welcome once he steps in. Atsumu checks in at the counter, has a look in the lounge where he takes some of the free water, and then goes up the elevator, key card in hand. His room is nice, there’s a view, the bed’s more than comfortable, and god bless the toilets in Japan because the seat is _heated._

After setting down his luggage, Atsumu puts back on his cap and sunglasses, loops his camera around his neck, and sets out for Nishiki Market. It takes about fifteen minutes to walk there, and Atsumu snaps pics along the way. His SD card is already filled with photos from Tokyo, lots of buildings and people.

He approaches the entrance to the food market, and Atsumu knows he is going to splurge his money. He burns his tongue on takoyaki, buys some weird organic healthy looking seaweed shit for his mom, has some god tier dango, takes photos of just about everything, and then he stops.

There’s a tall guy standing at one of the seafood stalls, Atsumu can only see him from the back but everything about him is distinctive from his curly black hair to the slopes of his broad shoulders, and literally, no one else would be that height.

“Omi-kun?” Atsumu calls out tentatively.

The man turns his head just enough for Atsumu to see the trademark moles above the eyebrow. He breaks into a grin. “Omi-kun!”

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here.”

“Food,” Kiyoomi shrugs.

“Not afraid of the germs?” Atsumu is curious.

“When I think about the fact that stomach acid kills just about fucking everything, I think I can manage. Plus scallops.”

 _“Two skewers,”_ Atsumu says to the man selling the mentioned scallops. He pays the appropriate amount, 1000 yen or a little under $10 USD, and hands one to Kiyoomi. “For Tokyo.”

Kiyoomi pulls his mask down, gingerly holds the foam plate, and eats one of the two big ass scallops on the stick. Atsumu watches with amusement. Kiyoomi swallows with relish. “Yeah, that’s good.”

They stand there to finish the rest of their food before moving on. Atsumu snaps a series of photos of Kiyoomi eating who goes through a range of emotions ending with annoyance.

“You didn’t say anything about going to Kyoto,” Atsumu brings up.

“You didn’t ask.”

He shrugs. “What were the odds of us meeting again?”

“We’re here now,” Kiyoomi says with a small smile. “Might as well as spend it together.”

Atsumu can’t stop smiling. “Yeah? I got some ideas.”

“Lead the way.”

They go through each stall and take a look at the merchandise. Atsumu buys some shitty gag gift for Osamu, Kiyoomi buying a similar one for his cousin. At the food stalls, they have a small contest into seeing who could charm the seller into giving more samples. Atsumu lets his Kansai dialect slip when flirting with the elderly woman selling mochi. It surprises Kiyoomi, _Kansai dialect,_ he asks, to which Atsumu answers, _my father_. They walk through the crowded market in tandem, their height letting them go past with ease. If Atsumu notices Kiyoomi standing closer than usual, he doesn’t say anything.

They comb their way through the market until dusk falls. Atsumu takes a shot of Kiyoomi from behind bathed in the glow of the setting sun. His heart stutters.

“Dinner?” Kiyoomi offers.

Atsumu accepts.

//

His Japanese is stilted. Nothing sounds right in English, too crude to convey his feelings.

 _“I miss you,”_ he whispers in a message to Kiyoomi. _“Please, call me back.”_

Atsumu attempts to write his feelings. He picks up the pen, but he’s not sure what to write. Dear Kiyoomi sounds too weird. Hey sounds too informal. Atsumu ends up deciding on just “Kiyoomi.”

> Kiyoomi.
> 
> I want to apologize. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I didn’t make time for you. Things ended up this way because of a mistake I made. I understand if you don’t want to hear from me again, but if there’s any chance of at least reconciling, I want to take it.
> 
> You’re the love of my life, always will be. Nothing will ever change that.
> 
> _Miya Atsumu._
> 
> _I love you._

It’s short but to the point. Atsumu can only hope for the best. He attaches the photo he took of Kiyoomi in Kyoto, the one of him bathed in the sunlight.

//

He dyes his hair blond in college after the first round of comments pertaining to him being a “nerd” and being here on a “scholarship.”

It’s funny seeing the look of shock on their face when he appears on the volleyball team. He’s on the bench right now, but Atsumu hits a lucky break when the coach lets him sub in for the second half. He’s naturally attuned to being a setter, the team easily catches up in points, and the game is theirs.

Business major in hand, collegiate athlete in the other, Atsumu feels a sense of pride for breaking the mold.

His parents cry at his graduation, Osamu claps him on the back (he finished culinary school two years earlier), and Atsumu grins. What a pair the two of them make, twins, both gay, both not doctors or lawyers or engineers. Goddamn immigrant kid experience has made him suffer all this time, there’s more than just some vindication in all this.

He gets to visit Japan for all his troubles.

//

“You’re here,” Atsumu states dumbly. “In Santa Monica. At the pier.”

“I am.”

Kiyoomi stands there leaning with his back against the wooden rails, cap pulled low, sunglasses tucked into his shirt. He’s wearing a white short sleeved button down, shorts, sock and a pair of Vans. He looks sunkissed which surprises Atsumu, he’d thought Kiyoomi would be the type to burn not tan.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Funny, you usually do,” Kiyoomi replies sarcastically. “My bad. I don’t know if you’re still—”

Atsumu cuts him off, “It’s fine.”

Neither of them know what to say after that, and Atsumu stares at the ground kicking his shoe at the sand.

 _“Dinner?”_ Atsumu asks hopefully and looks up.

Kiyoomi nods in agreement, the barest of smiles gracing his lips. They set out along the pier, the chatter of people and the squawk of seagulls surrounding them, the smell of the ocean fills Atsumu’s lungs along with the scent of fried food. Kiyoomi still slouches, Atsumu still remembers to bring hand sanitizer.

He’s finally home.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't expect this to do well at all but if you like it enough pls leave a kudos and/or comment
> 
> [twitter](twitter.com/rinniebear666)


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